At times, I vaguely wonder how my parents would react if I told them I was more interested in attending courses for art and graphic design than Law. If someone asks of me, my decision to enter the Art stream in JC , I would simply answer “I hate science, no – it’s more like I hate the theoretical based subjects that undermines the student’s analytical abilities. I love humanities, not for the subjects, but for the writing.”
I’m not sure if I could still say the same. The reason still holds true – to every last syllabus that was pronounced with such conviction and resolution – but I’ve always questioned whether it was better for me to attend some kind of art school for aspiring artists.
“Artists, they have no place in the working world,” My father always told me. “You can’t make a living off drawing.”
“But it’s my passion,” I would retort, eyes belligerent and a little disappointed by the words of the very man who had once encourage me to live up to my dream. “Didn’t you say that you need passion to work and to survive? If it’s not passion that gives us the courage to take a step forward, you would be shaming your own intelligence.”
“Have you seen any artists that made it big in the real world?”
No. Not once. Never.
My father used to love drawing when he was little.
He had little sketches of realistic human features.
He said he used to dream. He used to dream about selling his art pieces, and seeing the beauty crafted by his own hands.
I wondered why he stopped. Why didn’t he continue drawing those beautiful human portraits?
You can’t make a living off drawing…passion doesn’t count. It’s a job that pays well.
I know that. I know that perfectly well.
I vaguely remembered digging up old family albums from our storeroom and found my father’s sketchbooks. Old and tattered with years, his love for drawing portrayed with very delicate stroke of charcoal on paper, I believe he kept this passion and closed it… because life isn’t nice, society is cruel, men can’t dream, and passion isn’t worth a dime.
I still wish to see my father sketching portraits of our family.
Just a few days ago I asked to see his sketchbooks again.
“I threw it away,” he said. “I had to clear the unnecessary things from the storeroom."